Dust to Dust
by Cyrid
Summary: Fanfic of The Gods Are Bastards, by D D Webb. Features an alternate ending to Book 9, "Draw": What if Chaos had proven a little more resourceful? Suddenly Tiraas itself is under threat - and even the Pantheon may not be able to defend it.
1. Part 1

**Dust to Dust**

Based on _The Gods Are Bastards_ , by D. D. Webb, and in particular a comment thread on chapter 9-36; thanks to jeray2000, Club and Redmonitor for the idea, and to Prophet for encouragement and beta reading.

The Empress's sexuality was sometimes called the worst-kept secret in Tiraas. In fact, it wasn't a secret at all; neither she nor her husband had ever pretended their relationship was anything other than platonic. Although rising Shaathist sentiment meant that an openly gay person might have to bear a certain amount of hostility even in the capital, even Shaath's most dedicated followers would not talk ill of the Empress on account of her orientation.

Not to her face, anyway. What they did behind closed doors was, of course, no more her business than her relationship with her husband was theirs.

It was therefore ironic that Eleanora was a traditionalist at heart, even regarding her own marriage. Not that she ever felt guilty about her sexuality, exactly, but she did believe that it was a wife's duty to perform certain services for her husband. There were plenty of other women who would gladly have done it for her, but she felt that even an Empress – hell, _especially_ an Empress – had something to gain from swallowing her pride on occasion and tending to her husband's most basic needs.

Which was why the Imperial couple were currently alone in their private apartments – except for the embarrassed-looking Hand of the Emperor trying desperately to avert his eyes – while she cooked Sharidan dinner.

She wasn't actually very good at it. She'd had to master a huge number of very difficult skills in order to become an equal partner in running the largest empire in mortal history, and it hadn't left her a lot of free time. Still, she could follow a recipe as well as anyone.

The Emperor himself was sitting at the kitchen table, feeling faintly uncomfortable, as he always did when Eleanora insisted on doing this sort of thing. A traditionalist upbringing was all very well, but he personally was not a believer in doing things just because people in the past had also done them. And there was always the suspicion – never spoken aloud, because he knew she would deny it fervently whether or not it was true – that his wife _did_ actually feel guilty about her orientation, and was compensating for it.

On the other hand, it was nice to be able to relax. They hadn't had a lot of time alone recently, and as he watched her work around the stove – arcane rather than wood-burning, of course, the latest model – he could feel the tensions of the Empire draining away. They'd come back later, but for now he was feeling... content.

The fairy lamps on the wall flickered, and he glanced at them out of the corner of his eye. They flickered again, longer this time, plunging the room into darkness for a couple of seconds before coming back on.

The Hand standing by the wall opened his mouth to speak, and the lamps turned green. Then red.

'Sire, I don't mean to inconvenience you, but technically arcane equipment malfunctioning for no apparent reason is considered evidence of a security threat and—'

The lamps turned _black_ , an impossible shade of un-light that hurt the eyes and hurt the brain, throwing every detail of the kitchen into bizarre focus and revealing, for a moment, the shape of something impossibly huge and old pressing against the windows of the room, pressing against the walls of the room, pressing against the walls of the world as they bowed inward, reality creaking and groaning as it bent before the THING THAT COMES FROM OUTSIDE—

The light snapped back to normal, and the stove exploded.

Eleanora dropped to the floor as bits of red-hot metal went flying past her face, and the Hand attending them tackled Sharidan and pushed him to the ground even as he desperately threw himself out of his chair to help her up. Another Hand burst through the door a moment later and knelt by the Empress.

'Your Majesty! Are you alright?'

She lifted her head and breathed deeply. Sharidan could see a red line across her brow, another across her cheek, a graze across the side of her neck.

'I'm fine. Minor cuts.'

The lights failed again, although at least this time it was just regular darkness. _Absolute_ regular darkness; the palace complex outside the window, and the city beyond it, seemed totally black. As far as Sharidan knew, that hadn't happened in a hundred years.

'Safe room,' said the second Hand brusquely. ' _Now._ '

'No,' said Sharidan. 'I know what this is. We need to call in help.'

'So do I, which is why I will gladly go and call whomever you think is advisable while Your Majesties make your way to the magic-free safe room _which was specifically prepared for this eventuality_.'

'You wouldn't be able to get in the door,' said Eleanora, quick on the uptake as usual. 'One of you go find Quentin Vex and tell him to get his ass down to the Elysium as soon as possible. The other one may escort us there. Go!'

The Hands looked at each other, and then one – the one who'd been waiting outside the door – sprinted away. The other one finally got off Sharidan and offered him a hand up. Now that the Emperor could see his face, he looked mortified.

'My humblest apologies, sire, but—'

'Stop groveling, man, you were doing exactly what you were supposed to,' said Eleanora. 'Honestly, I don't know what he thought he'd do if I _had_ been hurt. Did you get ordained sometime in the past week and forget to tell me, dear?'

'Yes, alright,' said Sharidan testily. 'Forgive me for displaying the common—'

'Studying witchcraft, perhaps? Or maybe just surgery?'

'I _do_ know some first aid, you know!' he protested, but by this point he was just humoring her.

'Yes, dear. More than our dedicated Hands?'

Sharidan glared at her, but couldn't keep it up for long. 'Let's move out.'

They made slow progress through the palace, as their bodyguard insisted on being the first to enter each room. They were joined by another Hand as they left the building and made their way across the grounds.

The air outside the palace was thick with dust, blotting out most of the moon- and starlight. One of their Hands, ever resourceful, had procured an old-fashioned oil lamp from somewhere, and by its light the four of them crossed the palace grounds at a brisk pace and continued into the city.

Tiraas, though dark, was not silent. People were shouting, confused and scared. Without power, the Emperor knew, it was only a matter of time before people started panicking, and riots would soon follow.

On the other hand, if someone set the city on fire, at least they'd be able to see where they were going.

Not that he needed to. He knew his capital like the back of his hand and, more to the point, the Elysium wasn't the sort of place mortals found. It found them.

Sure enough, they rounded a corner and there it was, not _quite_ in the same place it had been the last time he'd seen it. The Emperor wasn't surprised to see Archpope Justinian making his way towards it from the opposite end of the street.

'Your Holiness,' said the Emperor politely.

'Your Majesties,' said the Archpope, equally politely.

'What have you done, you lunatic?' asked the Empress, slightly less so.

Justinian blinked. 'Excuse me, Your Majesty?' he asked. To his credit, he did _sound_ confused, but Justinian sounding confused meant only that he had chosen to sound confused.

'Don't give me that,' said Sharidan. If it had been up to him he'd have waited until later to confront him directly, but he and Eleanora had a mutual follow-my-lead policy that had never let them down before. 'You've had agents out looking for the skull of Belosiphon the Black for months.'

'True enough,' said Justinian blandly. 'In fact, they were meant to secure it a week ago.'

'Meant to?' asked the Empress. 'What happened? _Where's the skull?_ '

'I have no idea,' said Justinian, sounding impossibly calm. 'It and the team I'd sent to collect it disappeared off the map.'

'You _lost it?_ ' snarled Eleanora.

'Well, if it's any help, recent evidence suggests it's somewhere in the city.'

'Justinian,' said Sharidan, his voice low and dangerous, 'does anything about this situation strike you as joke-worthy?'

'I'm sorry, Your Majesty, it's just something I do to avoid collapsing into an absolute gibbering panic. What do you say we speak to someone who might be able to actually help, and then you can have me executed for treason and/or civilization-threatening incompetence once this is all over?'

Eleanora and Sharidan exchanged glances.

'Fair enough,' he said. He turned to his bodyguards. 'Wait outside,' he said. 'If any of the people in there wanted me dead, there's really nothing you could do about it.'

The Emperor, Empress and Archpope walked into a bar.

It was empty.

Sharidan was not well-learned in the ways of the gods, but this struck him as _rather a bad sign_.

'Your Holiness?' he asked. 'Any idea where we might be able to find our patrons?' He was whispering, even though there didn't appear to be anyone to disturb. It seemed like a good time to be respectful of the gods even in their absence.

'I must admit, Sire, that I find this as unnerving as you do,' said Justinian. 'Perhaps if we were to—'

'Good evening, Your Majesties,' said a man standing directly in front of them. 'And my faithful servant Justinian, of course. Have a seat.'

The man was short, elderly, balding and wholly unremarkable. He wore plain black robes and a pair of thick spectacles, and carried – cradled in his arms like a baby – a book.

There was something _odd_ about that book. It fit into the arms of a human – well, a being that was currently human-shaped, at any rate – and therefore couldn't possibly have been more than a few feet to a side or more than a few inches thick. But _at the same time_ it was clearly much bigger than that. Much, much bigger. The book shouldn't have been able to fit in the building. The book shouldn't have been able to fit in the city. That book, Sharidan could tell at a glance, was big enough to contain every other book on the planet, along with every scroll and clay tablet and scrap of papyrus made in the past eight thousand years, and much more besides. Probably even the oral traditions of the elves were in that book, and the songs of the centaurs and the lost histories of the orcs and...

And simultaneously, without flickering or changing in any way, it was just an ordinary book held by a perfectly ordinary elderly gentleman, whose identity it made perfectly obvious.

'Lord Nemitoth,' said Justinian, and the three mortals bowed.

The scholar laid the Book of Books on the table between them.

 _Wait, what table?_

'Sit down, please,' repeated the librarian. 'Our time is short and I have much to explain. The city – nay, the _Empire_ – has come under deliberate attack by the forces of Chaos.'

'We'd gathered that,' said Eleanora, as they sat down on the chairs behind them. 'We came to ask for your help.'

'I know,' said the archivist. 'We're doing what we can.'

The Emperor had never heard a more frightening statement in his entire life.

'What?' he asked. 'They're – you – gods can suppress Chaos effects, can't you?'

The teacher nodded gravely. 'Chaos _effects_ , yes. What's happening now is something else entirely.'

'Lord Nemitoth,' said Justinian with more firmness than Sharidan would have thought wise. 'With all due respect, _what is going on?_ '

The steward of knowledge turned his owlish gaze on him. 'A week ago you tried _and failed_ to secure a powerful Chaos artifact.'

'Yes,' said Justinian. The Emperor hated how composed he sounded, even now, even here.

'Your team did in fact find the skull where they expected to. Under the very eyes of the Trinity, they wrapped it in a protective shroud and attempted to teleport back to Tiraas.'

'Teleport?' asked Eleanora. 'With a Chaos artifact? Justinian, you absolute _fool._ '

'Hence the protective shroud,' said the professor. 'It was worked with a quite brilliant dimensional weaving that should have kept the energies of the skull contained for more than twenty hours, and the plan was to get it to a more secure resting place long before then. But... is it not said that the gods tread on the plans of mortals?'

'I don't understand,' said Eleanora. ' _You_ did this? Why would—'

'Not Lord Nemitoth,' said the Archpope. 'Calomnar. The Chaos God.'

'I have always felt that term to be most unfair,' said the sage. 'My unfortunate brother _does_ have his own sphere. Regardless, my servant is correct – Calomnar, although I doubt he could have worked any mischief under the gaze of Avei, Omnu and Vidius, had intervened long before then, interfering with the design of the shroud so that—'

He was interrupted as a woman appeared beside him, dressed in the uniform of the Imperial Army. She carried a radiant sword and a shield emblazoned with an eagle sigil. Much more alarmingly, she was breathing heavily and bleeding golden ichor from a dozen wounds.

The warrior looked them over. 'I'm glad to see you safe,' she said, although she didn't _sound_ glad; mostly, she just sounded tired. 'Has my brother brought you up to speed?'

'I was in the process of doing so,' said the researcher. 'The situation was complex and—'

'Calomnar fucked with the protections on the skull. Chaos energies leaked out and rerouted the teleport to Sifan, where a bunch of orcs got their hands on it, ground it into powder, reverse-engineered the design of the dimensional weave to make something that could contain it for long enough to bring it back to this continent, and then dropped it out of a zeppelin into a windstream that would spread it over the entire Empire,' said the soldier. 'It wasn't _that_ complicated and we really don't have much time.'

The bibliophile gave her a look that, had he been a mortal, might have been described as petulant.

The mortals had other things on their mind.

The judge could apparently read their expressions. 'Oh, it gets worse. See, what you call a Chaos _effect_ is the result of Chaos leaking in from outside in a very slow, diffuse way. It's not quite as major a breach as an actual rift, but what with Chaos being corrosive to the very fabric of the universe, it does create a volume of...'

'Somewhat weakened protections,' said the elder. 'And when that volume is large enough for them to fit, things start pushing through. '

Sharidan didn't have to ask what kind of things he meant. 'So you're dealing with a being the size of the continent.'

'Beings in the plural, we think, and we're trying to fight them off,' said the tactician. 'And, frankly, it's not going well.'

'How can we help?' asked the Archpope, and Sharidan knew that if they somehow made it through the day he would ever after regret that it had been _Justinian_ who asked the sensible question.

'If this thing – these _things_ – manifest on the mortal plane we've pretty much already lost,' said the strategist. 'This is god work.'

'Arguably, the purest possible example of god work,' interjected the philosopher. 'You could make the case that this is the only irreplaceable function we fulfill – defending against threats from outside.'

'Mm,' said the defender of women noncommittally. 'In the meantime, what we need from you is the same thing we've always needed. Keep the peace. Reassure people their gods are fighting for them in this hour of need. Try to keep your civilization running while essential services are suspended.'

'Essential services?' asked Sharidan, fully aware that he'd regret it.

'Well, magic, of course,' said the scribe. 'The divine light will be completely unavailable while our power is occupied fending off this threat, and the other schools will be rendered so unstable by the concentration of Chaos that you're better off not trying. And...'

He trailed off and shot a glance at his fellow goddess, who only smiled. Sharidan had the inkling of an impression that the champion of criminal and social justice, the woman of action, might not feel an awful lot of respect for a god whose dogma consisted chiefly of not doing much. He'd have to ask Justinian before they had him executed.

The loremaster cleared his throat and continued. 'The process of death may not run quite as smoothly as you have grown to expect it to.'

Sharidan had read enough classical literature to realize this was probably not as good a thing as it sounded. The lady of war was smiling mirthlessly, which was also a hint.

'Dare I ask what exactly that would entail, my lord?' he hazarded.

'Well,' said the patient one, 'necromantic phenomena are a common side-effect even of low-scale Chaos events, so that's likely to be considerably exacerbated. And with the Reapers being otherwise occupied, the newly dead may well rise again with their souls still intact.'

'Surely that would be a good thing, though?' asked Justinian. He was wearing an odd expression. 'Wouldn't that just mean the undead would retain their free will?'

'Perhaps,' said the keeper of secrets. 'But in general, even self-willed undead are subject to the will of the necromancer who raised them. In a case like this… the role of 'the necromancer' might be undefined, as with the self-sustaining vampire curse. Or the reanimated may find themselves subjugated to the will of Chaos itself. There's really no way to be sure. Salyrene might know, but…'

'Our sibling is otherwise occupied,' said the justiciar firmly. She cocked an ear, as if listening to something in the far distance. 'As should we be.'

'Indeed,' said the expositor, suddenly much more alert. 'If you need more answers, they may well be in there—' he nodded at the book on the table '—but time is of the essence. Good luck.'

And they were gone.

Sharidan glanced sideways at his fellow mortals. Eleanora was wearing a look of shock that no doubt matched his own, but Justinian's face was oddly neutral.

If the Emperor were the kind to be paranoid, he might have thought that since the appropriate emotional response to the situation was abject horror, the fact that even a master actor such as the Archpope could not school his face to present it must mean that he was secretly overjoyed and just barely restraining his excitement. This did not bode well.

If the Emperor were the kind to be even more paranoid, he might have thought that _that was exactly what he wanted him to believe._

Sharidan did not feel at all sure of himself, but he wouldn't have been able to keep the Empire running for a single day if he didn't know how to improvise like hell in a pinch.

'Right,' he said, in his official Imperial Taking Charge voice. 'Let's move out.'

Eleanora, gods bless her, was on her feet in an instant. Justinian took a moment to try to pick up the Book from the table in front of them, apparently discovered it was too heavy to lift, and left it there.

The Hands waiting outside the door fell into step with them immediately as they left the Elysium, and Sharidan realized that if he really thought Justinian was up to something, the sensible thing might be to just kill him now. The Hands wouldn't question the order for a moment, and no plan to capitalize off Chaos could _possibly_ be good for anyone.

On the other hand, he wasn't actually certain of anything, and the Archpope would be enormously handy for coordinating the cults and keeping the populace calm. He could always kill him later.

He turned to one of their Hands. 'Get to Army HQ right away, tell them to get people on the street immediately with torches or lanterns. Make it clear that law and order will not break down in my capital just because magic has.'

'Sire,' said the Hand. 'I must point out that your safety cannot be assured on the streets of Tiraas at a time like this even with two of us present. I believe leaving three eminent persons with only one bodyguard on a night when riots are expected to break out is a mistake.'

'Your concerns are noted,' said Sharidan. 'And also disregarded. Go!'

'Sire,' said the Hand again, and sprinted off.

'Right,' said Sharidan. He found he was rubbing his hands together; now that he was actually doing something, he was feeling a little better. The problems that were actually inside his sphere of responsibility were pretty straightforward. 'Your Holiness, I want to start distributing non-magical light sources and cold boxes as soon as possible, but the Throne doesn't really have the manpower available outside of the Army, and they'll be keeping the peace. The cults do, however.'

'I will coordinate with the Bishops immediately,' said Justinian. 'Unless you think I should go straight to the heads of the cults?'

'Given the situation, that seems appropriate,' said Eleanora. Then she frowned. 'Wait— there is _one_ Bishop who I think is worth our time tonight.'

The Archpope smiled, and it appeared genuine – whatever that was worth. 'I do believe you are correct, Your Majesty; no-one in any cult knows the streets of Tiraas better than Antonio Darling. I shall go directly to his residence myself.'

'We shall accompany you,' said Sharidan.

Justinian gave him an unreadable look, but the Emperor chose to take that as a sign he was way off his game – unreadable looks were a beginner's tactic, because they indicated that the looker had something to hide. Unless _that was exactly_ —

'After all,' said Eleanora, smoothly cutting off Sharidan's train of thought before it could collapse into madness. 'It is a dangerous night and we no longer have a spare bodyguard to lend you. And besides, I feel a visit from the Imperial couple should instill an appropriate sense of urgency in the man.'

If reality didn't melt around their ears, Sharidan was going to divorce that woman just so he could marry her all over again.

'As you say, Your Majesty,' said Justinian. 'This way, I believe.'

The walk to Bishop Darling's house was short, though surreal. It was darker than it ever was in Tiraas, but people were nevertheless milling around, carrying old-fashioned lanterns, candles, or improvised torches, looking generally bewildered. It would be too much to hope that people would just sleep through everything, Sharidan supposed. At least the undead monstrosities had yet to appear.

The surprised citizens knelt as he went past, and he nodded graciously and calmly, as if to indicate that everything was under control. A good number of people started following them, and by the time they reached the Bishop's residence there was a small crowd trailing after them. The Emperor paused on the porch outside and turned around. The frightened people before him – _his_ frightened people – murmured louder.

He hadn't wanted to do this in the middle of a random street. The lighting and acoustics were totally off, the audience wasn't really big enough, he didn't have enough Imperial personnel with him to make a show of strength, and most importantly he hadn't a clue what he was going to say.

Fuck it. He'd wing it, in the grand custom of Tiraan Emperors for countless generations. In war it was said that no plan survives first contact with the enemy, but his loyal subjects could preemptively destroy plans before he'd even begun forming them.

He raised his hands for silence, and waited until it was absolute.

He took the lantern from the hand of the Hand next to them and raised it above his head, so that his face and that of the Empress and Archpope were clearly visible.

And he smiled. The Emperor had a lot of smiles, and he selected one that was sly and defiant, the smile of someone facing down impossible odds and daring them to come get him. Given how few odds these days qualified as "impossible" for the Throne of Tiraas, it wasn't an expression he got to use often.

'This is it!' he yelled into the dark street.

Those faces he could make out looked puzzled, which was good. Puzzled meant interested.

'There are countries where, on a night like this, a ruler might stand before his people and lie to them!' he said, pitching his voice to carry. 'Where he might consider that his best chance of keeping his populace under control would be to tell them that everything was _perfectly fine_. The sudden failure of fairy lights? An arcane storm, he might say. The deep-seated feeling of dread you all feel? A rogue fey effect. The beings that some of you must have seen pressing in from the space between spaces? Probably just want to be friends.'

They laughed at that, although it had the edge of people who'd laugh at anything just to break the tension.

'But I'm not going to tell you any of that,' said Sharidan. 'Because I am _proud_ to rule an Empire not inhabited by morons!'

They laughed again, a little more naturally this time, which Sharidan took as his cue to segue into sincerity.

First, confirm what was going on. This eliminated any confusion that might exist in the populace – many of whom might not be educated enough to recognize what they were seeing – and gave the impression that the people in charge weren't totally lost. 'Yes, the things you have seen this night are the effects of Chaos.'

Second, explain what that meant. This served to further demonstrate that the Empire knew what they were doing, and also gave the audience some idea of what they had to prepare for. 'This means that magic will be unreliable until further notice. Necromantic or dimensional events may occur seemingly without reason.'

Thirdly, acknowledge the part of the threat that they _couldn't_ do anything about, but don't dwell on it. 'And yes, those beings you saw are real, and they are dangerous.'

Let them know that their leaders were also afraid. This made it clear that they weren't totally delusional, and also comforted the populace by implying that their fear was nothing to be ashamed of. 'If I were to tell you that despite all that I was not in the slightest bit worried, the Empress would be only doing her duty if she were to have me deposed as a madman. So _yes_ , of course I'm worried. I'm _terrified_. Only a fool would be without fear on a night like this. Wiser men than I have faced such horrors as we face now, and done nothing but go screaming into the night.'

Had he used "night" twice in two sentences there? This was the kind of thing that happened when he tried to speak off the cuff.

Oh well. On to the counterpoint! 'But men wiser than _them_ have discovered what will hold their fear at bay and put steel in their spines! Your Holiness, what is it we call this discovery, this deepest of all magics?'

The Archpope smiled as well, although it was more restrained than the Emperor's own expression. If he was trying to come across as the level-headed one, tonight of all nights, Sharidan was going to have to find some way to execute him extra hard.

He still played to the obvious script. Dumb, the man was not. 'Faith, Your Majesty.'

'Aye, _faith!_ ' roared the Emperor. 'And the faith that sustains me now in the face of Chaos itself is twofold. First, faith in our gods. The Empress, the Archpope and I have spoken to Avei herself this night—' gods _damn_ it, not again '—and she has revealed to us that the full might of the Pantheon is even now holding this power at bay. It is thanks to the gods that the visions you have seen of those... beings remain only visions.'

'Second,' said the Emperor, and now his voice was quieter, because the line he had to deliver was stupider and quiet confidence offset that better. 'Faith in Tiraas and in her citizens. I know that when our magic leaves us, when all our arcane devices fail, we will adapt and carry on, lending help to our neighbors when they require it and accepting help without shame when it is offered.

'And I have faith that, even should the unthinkable happen—even should we have to contend ourselves with one of those powers that press in on the world from outside—we will face and overcome it, through our own might and ingenuity.'

He lowered his voice further, so that the people at the back of the crowd would have to strain to hear it, although in the pitch darkness he couldn't tell if they actually did.

'Because we are Tiraas, and we are forever.'

A moment of silence.

'Long live the Emperor!' shouted someone. 'Long live Tiraas!' The cry was taken up by the other people in the street, and even by some people leaning out of their windows to watch and listen.

That'd do. Smiling to himself – a real smile this time – Sharidan spun on his heel and pushed open the door of Antonio Darling's house.

It was only after he'd stepped inside that he realized that there was no reason the door would be unlocked, and even less reason why _he would know it was in advance_.

He took a step backwards, and found the door closed behind him. It had opened inwards, which meant that should not have been physically possible without it somehow swinging shut through the Emperor's own body, which he was pretty sure hadn't happened.

He breathed deeply to steady his nerves, and immediately wished he hadn't. There was a terribly familiar smell in the entrance hall.

Sharidan raised the lantern above his head once again, and in its light saw a headless corpse standing upright against the far wall.

He wanted to cry out, but for all he knew the people outside could still hear him, and while he might have been prepared for either his subjects _or_ his wife _or_ Justinian to hear him die screaming, all three was just too embarrassing.

The dead body raised one hand and made a gentle beckoning motion, and Sharidan ran. He didn't give the thing the satisfaction of seeing him try to reopen the front door; he darted to the left, going towards a staircase leading upwards.

What were his options? The obvious answer to an undead monster was divine magic, and the gods had made it pretty clear that would be offline for the foreseeable future. Mithril would also work, but he didn't have any. The Empire had a small amount of the stuff and Hands of the Emperor carried mithril daggers when they were on active bodyguard duty, but it was generally considered that if the Emperor was somehow separated from his bodyguards, a weapon he didn't know how to use would be more help to his attacker than him.

Sharidan added _Adjust security protocols to account for unholy abominations_ to his increasingly long list of things to do once the present crisis was over.

He paused at the top of the stairs, moving the lantern this way and that. There – a door. He darted through, as quietly as he could. It was a bedroom, with a large double bed in the center.

What else worked against undead? Regular fire was effective against some of them, he seemed to recall. Hmm... grab the sheet off the bed, net the thing as it came through the door, and smash it with the lantern? He'd lose his light source, but—

The door of the bedroom opened behind him. The Emperor whirled, bringing the lantern up and around, and the headless body jumped backwards frantically and raised its open palms above its shoulders.

Neither of them moved for a few heartbeats. For the first time Sharidan noticed that it was female, and wearing a Butler's uniform.

The undead monstrosity waved at him.

'You're sentient?' he asked cautiously.

The thing's right hand formed into a thumbs-up.

Hold on. Hadn't the knowledgeable one said that this night's dead might retain their souls even into undeath?

'Are you... Bishop Darling's Butler?' Distant memory flickered. 'Price?'

Another thumbs-up.

Huh. 'Trust the Service Society to produce loyalty that survives revivification by eldritch powers,' said Sharidan. He was feeling a little light-headed. 'You know, the Imperial household doesn't use Butlers on principle, but with this—'

Price slipped through the door, closed it silently behind her, and raised one hand above the stump of her neck, with a single finger extended straight upwards. It took a moment for the Emperor to realize she was holding a finger to her absent lips.

'Danger?' he whispered.

The hand came down and signed the affirmative again.

'The same thing that got you?'

Again.

Well, if this thing could take out a Butler then Sharidan himself didn't have much of a chance. His best bet was probably just to hide until he could grab Darling and get out.

Oh, crap. 'Did this Chaos being get the Bishop?' he asked, still whispering.

Two thumbs down. He wasn't sure what to make of that.

'The Bishop is alive and well?'

It appeared that he was. Sharidan scanned through his previous question.

' _Was_ it a Chaos being that killed you?'

One thumb down. As if the Emperor didn't have enough to worry about.

'Undead?'

Another negative, and then Price raised her hand and, with an exaggerated gesture, indicated the area where her head should have been.

Sharidan mentally ran down the list of things that could reasonably kill a Butler in a straight fight, and the penny dropped.

On cue, the door groaned. Sharidan whirled to face it, but it remained firmly shut. He glanced at Price, who of course was not a lot of help.

The door made another sound, lower and more drawn-out, and then the ancient wood twisted and put forth shoots, and finally warped so far that the nails holding the hinges in went flying out all at once.

The door fell inwards, revealing the darkness of the landing outside. Standing opposite them, at the top of the stairs, was a humanoid figure. The light from Sharidan's lantern was only enough to reveal that it was short, slim and wearing a black cloak.

The figure raised both hands unhurriedly and made a strange gesture. A subtly shifting arc of dark energy formed between its fingers, coiling, snakelike.

The shadowbolt detonated in its hands and blew it backwards down the stairs with an undignified thump.

The headless Price grabbed the Emperor's hand and dragged him out the door without hesitating a second. They made it halfway across the landing before their assailant came bounding back up the stairs, somehow still moving completely silently, and bore Sharidan to the ground. The lantern hit the floor next to him, and – small mercies – did not break.

Looking straight up into her hood, Sharidan saw the face of the elven headhunter twisted into a grimace of indescribable hatred. A wicked-looking knife glinted in her raised right hand.

It was appropriate, he thought. Tiraas had killed Khar – had killed Athan'Khar itself – and now the orcs had killed Tiraas, and in a moment, the spirits of Athan'Khar would kill the Emperor.

Price grabbed the elf's right wrist and yanked her off him with the sound of several bones breaking.

It was only then that Sharidan realized that generally the most dangerous thing about elven headhunters was their equal access to all four schools of magic, and that without reliable magic of any kind, a headhunter was basically just a very dangerous psychopath with a knife.

Price swung the headhunter through the air and slammed her against the wall, still holding her wrist. She landed gracefully on the balls of her feet, produced _another_ knife in her left hand, severed the Butler's arm at the elbow, and chopped off both of her legs without any apparent effort.

An _extremely_ dangerous psychopath. With two knives.

The headhunter turned to face him again, ignoring the disembodied hand still gripping her right wrist.

She said something in Orcish. Sharidan had never studied the language, but he could make an educated guess. He was pretty sure the name "Athan'Khar" had been in there somewhere.

The Emperor of Tiraas refused to die begging for his life.

The shadows behind the elf swelled, and she spun to face them, bringing the knife around in a wide arc that the newcomer caught on the edge of their sword as the shadows receded behind them. Sharidan couldn't really make out their features, but managed to catch elven ears, a build almost as burly as a human's, gray skin and black hair.

The events of the past hour might have been making him unduly pessimistic, but he had an immediate suspicion what he was looking at.

The two elves dueled silently for a few seconds, but it was no surprise when his savior managed to nick the headhunter with their sword. Blood-red flames spread from the wound as the fight continued, and within less than a minute she collapsed to the floor, even as the hellfire continued to burn at her body.

Sharidan took a moment to compose himself as the newcomer turned this way and that, apparently checking for any more hostile entities.

The ears meant _elf_. The gray skin and relatively heavy frame meant _drow_. But drow, universally, had white hair. Come to that, almost no elves had black hair, except one particular bloodline that, as far as the Emperor knew, had never interbred with drow.

He supposed that, in theory, they might have done at some point. It wasn't like the Tiraan Empire had a complete record of all the Crow's offspring. But the other option was that the man who had just saved his life was not _exactly_ a drow.

He wasn't surprised when the newcomer turned to face him and revealed eyes like openings into the void of space.

'A pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty. I am Yophiel the Black.'


	2. Part 2

Sharidan Julius Adolphus Tirasian had had an interesting childhood.

In many ways, it had been easier than a lot of people's. His every material need had been provided. He'd had friends and companions whose company he genuinely enjoyed. His parents had made a point of spending time with him when they could.

But he had always, _always_ been learning. He'd studied history and politics, finance and economics, strategy and tactics. He'd studied the myriad cultures of the Empire, its allies and enemies. He'd learned _to_ learn, to bring his mind slightly closer to being a machine that could run an empire.

He'd learned things that had never been taught effectively in any classroom. He'd learned to ride and fight and lead and intimidate and befriend. He'd learned through experience, his own and that of his tutors, parents and friends, and of the great men and women of previous generations.

He'd learned through success and failure, mostly the latter. By the age of twenty, his mistakes had killed more people than some of his citizens would meet throughout their entire lives – and he'd learned from that too.

He'd learned about duty and loyalty and patriotism. He'd learned to plot and scheme and betray.

But above all else, he'd learned to be afraid.

The Tiraan Empire was the largest in mortal history, and the reason this was the case was that most empires fell to pieces long before they got to that stage. To prevent Tiraas from going the same way, each day a thousand factors needed to be weighed against each other, a thousand tiny decisions made, and a thousand safeguards set in place in case any of those decisions had been the wrong ones.

Sharidan had grown up knowing that he might live to see his entire civilization fail, and that _it would be all his fault._

On this night, he had come closer than ever to seeing that fear realized. Obviously the orcish diaspora had played a part in the current crisis, as had Justinian – but ultimately, the blame lay with the Emperor. He had known the Archpope had designs on the skull of Belosiphon, but had chosen to let things play out rather than confront him. The death of Price, and of who-knew-how-many others, were on Sharidan's shoulders.

(Not that Justinian and the orcs were blameless. There was more than enough blame for everyone.)

All this is to say that by time he found himself face-to-face with the most powerful of all infernal creatures, a being that could destroy him and possibly his entire capital city on a whim, he found he was no more afraid than he'd been a few minutes earlier. There just wasn't any room.

Also, the dragon had just saved his life. This was the kind of behavior the Emperor was inclined to see in a positive light.

He extended his hand. Yophiel had called him "Your Majesty" but had not bowed, so he presumably considered himself royalty. Under the circumstances, he wasn't going to argue the point.

'A pleasure to meet you as well,' lied Sharidan.

The dragon took his hand and shook it, his featureless eyes never leaving the Emperor's own.

'Thank you for saving my life,' added Sharidan, more sincerely.

'Only doing my duty, Your Majesty,' said Yophiel with a small smile.

Sharidan wasn't sure what to make of that. Dragons, let alone elevated dragons, were not generally considered Imperial subjects.

He clearly wasn't doing a good job of schooling his expression – not surprising, all things considered – because Yophiel smiled wider.

'Not my duty to _you_ , with all due respect. I am here at my mistress's bidding. The Pantheon called for aid, and... well, it would appear we are on the same side.'

He didn't have to add the words "for now". Sharidan had no illusions about how long such an alliance could last.

He found himself feeling glad that the Queen of Hell had sent an agent rather than coming herself. He really had no idea how he'd react if he saw her again in person. And – absurdly – he was glad she was safe. This was not a sentiment he would ever voice to anyone, but he didn't need Eleanora to tell him it was probably a sign something was very wrong with him.

Not to mention the child. If time in Hell had stayed synchronized with the material plane's – far from guaranteed – then they'd be about a year old by now. Assuming their mother had opted to give birth on the normal human schedule, of course, which was even less guaranteed.

Sharidan had genuinely never thought he'd ever be in a situation where thinking about that one time he fell in love with and impregnated the Dark Lady would be a welcome distraction, but a distraction it was. He had more important things to worry about.

'I don't mean to be rude,' said the Emperor carefully, which was a bit of understatement. 'But... what exactly is your assignment here? The gods made it clear to me that only another god would be any help to them.'

The dragon smiled, an unnerving expression given his solid-black eyes. 'You can blame the Pantheon for that, Your Majesty. My mistress offered to come herself, but apparently they could not lay aside their paranoia even in this time of crisis. I myself, however, represent a not-insignificant portion of her power, and can act as her proxy here. I would not claim to be any substitute for Scyllith's own presence, of course, but I suppose it's better than nothing.'

Right. Hadn't Sharidan read somewhere that the presence of a paladin would suppress Chaos by default? It seemed to be the same principle. That would also explain why Yophiel's magic seemed to be working just fine.

Wait a second. Had he heard that right? ' _Whose_ own presence?'

Yophiel raised his eyebrows, which made the eyes look even weirder. 'Scyllith, Your Majesty. My mistress? I'm sure you've heard of her.'

At that moment the Emperor realized that some part of him had been hoping that if they – Eleanora, Tiraas and himself – made it through all this, everything would go back to normal. By some feat of _insane_ optimism, he'd been holding on to the delusion that if they just managed to keep their civilization intact until the gods beat back Chaos and "essential services" resumed, then tomorrow would continue pretty much as yesterday had, and this whole nightmare would become just something for his citizens to tell their grandchildren about.

The involvement of of the mother of all demons made that impossible. The goddess of cruelty was _not_ going to help the Pantheon out of the goodness of her heart. The situation was desperate enough that she would be able to name her price, and Sharidan could only guess what that price would be. Help recovering Hell from its upstart Queen? A foothold in the surface world of the mortal plane? More?

The realization came and went in an instant, and this time the Emperor kept his face under control. 'Of course,' he said blandly. 'So, you're capable of pitching in directly in fending off Chaos?'

'Pretty much, although a magical theorist might object to the use of the word "directly". Helping you with your… trouble wasn't strictly within mission parameters, but I thought a show of good faith wouldn't go amiss.'

A show of good faith from a black dragon probably wasn't even the weirdest thing that had happened to him tonight, so Sharidan let that pass without comment.

'Well, _I_ certainly appreciated it,' said the Emperor, because it was the middle of the night and he'd be damned if he was going to come up with original material for a being who was already unshakably loyal to someone else. 'Er... do you know how to get out of here? I think Chaos locked me in.'

It was a strange way of putting it, and Sharidan regretted the phrasing as soon as he closed his mouth. Chaos wasn't anthropomorphic, even mentally; it wasn't just some kind of extraplanar god. It didn't _have_ agency.

Then he remembered that, less than an hour ago, he'd heard a nigh-omniscient being refer to "the will of Chaos itself", which sounded pretty agent-y now that he came to think of it.

'Spontaneous Chaos manifestations tend to be fragile,' said Yophiel. 'Proper spells have a designer and a caster behind them who can foresee possible changes and account for them ahead of time. Chaos doesn't have a mind unless it's borrowed a cultist's, so any change of occult significance tends to throw it off. In this case, I think the death of your attacker here—' he prodded the headhunter's corpse with his toe, apparently paying no mind to the hellfire that still burned at her '—should do the trick.'

That was _suspiciously_ convenient, but the Emperor decided he was owed a lucky break at this point. He turned to the Butler now lying on the floor in several pieces. 'Your help was invaluable, Miss Price. The Throne owes you a debt.'

Sharidan had never seen a dragon look confused before. 'She's dead, Your Majesty. One might say _emphatically_ so.'

'She's ensouled undead,' he explained. Then he looked back at Price, who didn't seem to have moved since the headhunter had sliced her up. 'Or at least, she was a second ago.'

Yophiel shrugged. 'Break up any undead creature into small enough parts and it will eventually stop moving. If the necromancer is good enough, that might not happen until it's dissolved in acid. If there's no necromancer at all, something as crude as a knife will apparently do.'

Sharidan didn't care to guess how long Yophiel had been alive, but at some point he seemed to have taken a keen interest in Chaos magic. Perhaps that wasn't surprising, given what had happened to Belosiphon – but given what had happened to Belosiphon, it wasn't a reassuring thought.

Still, if he was right then at least they could leave. 'After you, then,' said the Emperor, and gestured towards the stairs.

'Oh no, Your Majesty. After _you_.'

They descended in silence, but once they reached the living room Sharidan's frazzled brain finally pulled itself together. 'The only black dragon most of my citizens have heard of is Belosiphon. May I respectfully request that you avoid exposure to the public eye while you're in the city? It shouldn't get in the way of completing your assignment, and I'd rather not frighten them any more than they already are.'

'I'm afraid I must – equally respectfully – decline.' Yophiel smiled pleasantly. 'The fact that the average Tiraan immediately associates black dragons with Chaos makes it all the more important that I clear our name, wouldn't you say?'

Well, so much for good faith. On the other hand, this revealed the extremely interesting fact that Yophiel's mistress was apparently interested in publicity. There were any number of reasons why she might, none of them good, but the Emperor supposed it was better to know her plans than not.

If anything, the crowd outside Bishop Darling's house had grown while he'd been inside, but they were kept at bay by a squad of soldiers. The porch itself was nevertheless quite crowded, since it now held Eleanora, Justinian, two Hands of the Emperor including the one who'd been accompanying them throughout the evening, Quentin Vex, and an entire Imperial Strike Team.

All of those people turned to stare at him as he opened the door, _obviously_ , because their Emperor had just been locked in a house by forces unknown. Why hadn't he thought of something to say?

'It seems Chaos doesn't like me much,' he improvised. 'But it'll have to try a little harder than _that._ '

The crowd hooted and cheered, so that seemed to be good enough. In a way, handling people during a crisis was actually easier than usual.

He stepped out of the doorway. 'I could not, however, have prevailed alone. The Throne presents its formal thanks to Yophiel the Black!'

The dragon stepped out onto the porch. The crowd suddenly seemed a lot less enthusiastic.

And Sharidan suddenly noticed how magnificent he was.

His physical form was perfect, which wasn't surprising considering the goddess he served. But more than that, the sheer _power_ that radiated from him was almost tangible, like the heat of a fire. The citizens of Tiraas clearly felt it too; those closest to the house took a couple of steps away from the line of soldiers keeping them back. One of them actually raised his hand as if to shield his eyes, though the dragon wasn't even carrying a light source.

The Emperor felt an enormous weight lift from his shoulders. It was all over. Chaos was scary, yes, and he'd been right to be afraid; but against the awesome might of Yophiel the Black, it seemed more a nuisance than an actual _threat_. It couldn't even _think_ , for Heaven's sake. What had he been so worried about?

Well, admittedly, the Pantheon had also seemed worried, so it wasn't like Sharidan had been alone in overestimating the threat. But really, who could blame them? They were young gods, not even ten thousand years old, still carrying the mental baggage of their mortal existence. They even manifested avatars when they wanted to speak to people, a childish affectation if ever there was one.

Now, finally, a grown-up had arrived on the scene. The goddess of light and beauty had sent a champion, and the dark ugliness of Chaos would surely be—

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Eleanora raise a hand to cover her mouth.

Abruptly, the sense of awe receded. Not entirely – the crowd was still staring raptly at Yophiel, even though he wasn't doing anything except stand there – but enough to allow Sharidan to realize what had just happened.

He'd met dragons before, and he'd never encountered a draconic aura like that. In retrospect, though, he should have guessed the effect would be stronger for an elevated dragon.

The Emperor knew he had to get his act together, and soon. Too many things had surprised him tonight that he should have been prepared for. Chaos was unpredictable enough by nature; if he kept failing to anticipate the things he _could_ see coming, he was going to die, and Tiraas was going to die with him.

This wasn't arrogance; it was just one of the downsides of a monarchic government. The Empire would keep functioning in a crisis because everyone knew who was in charge and no-one was entitled to argue with him, but that meant that he, Sharidan, was the system's single point of failure.

The obvious solution to this problem was to produce an heir, which he had so far failed to do… except that once.

Could she be responsible for this whole thing? It seemed unlikely that the Archpope was actually a member of the Black Wreath, but the goddess of cunning had more subtle ways of manipulating people.

So… the Queen of Hell somehow plants the idea of going after the skull of Belosiphon, it goes predictably terribly, the Empire is plunged into a crisis during which the Emperor is killed, and the demon demigod is clear to take the throne. Plus, once it comes out that the Archpope was responsible for the whole debacle, he would be deposed and the Church discredited.

It seemed frighteningly plausible, but "frighteningly plausible" was a long way from "certain" and even if it was true it didn't help Sharidan deal with the immediate threats.

Even after that little show, he wasn't sure whether the black dragon fell into that category. Messing with people's minds without getting their explicit permission was generally considered a hostile act, but most dragons did it to mortals without a second thought, by their mere presence. If anything, keeping it suppressed while they were in the house had been an act of unusual politeness.

Yophiel spoke, addressing the crowd. His voice carried a trace of an unfamiliar accent, exotic and musical. 'I come in peace, bearing no ill will. I have been personally charged by my mistress Scyllith to aid your gods against the forces of the outside, and must therefore depart. In the meantime, I wish you luck dealing with Chaos as it manifests on this plane. Be strong, and listen to your Emperor; we have spoken, and I think him very wise.

'Scyllith's blessings upon you all.'

His shadow rose up behind him and swallowed him.

With the spell broken, the crowd's attention swung back to the Emperor, who carefully turned away to indicate that the show was over.

Eleanora closed the distance between them in a couple of slow steps, her poise so perfectly regal that probably only Sharidan noticed how agitated she looked. 'Are you all right?' she whispered. 'What happened in there?'

'I'm fine,' he assured her. 'Darling is missing but I'd bet he's still alive and in the city. I'll give you the details once we're somewhere more private.'

She nodded.

'What did you say to him?' Sharidan asked.

'Hmm?'

'To Yophiel. He was hammering us with his aura and you whispered something behind your hand.'

'Oh, _that_. I told him to knock it off or I'd kick him in the nuts.'

The Emperor nearly choked. 'He's an emissary of an allied power! And also a _black dragon!_ '

'There's a particular kind of being that responds well to getting sassed by mere mortals. Dragons tend to fit the profile, particularly the blues and reds. I think they find it funny, like if your guinea pig threatened to break your kneecaps.'

On reflection, Sharidan had actually noticed that, although he himself had never been in a position to exploit it – being the Emperor generally required him to maintain a certain dignity.

'Also,' added Eleanora, 'I'm a woman. Never met a dragon who didn't appreciated a girl with _spunk_.'

Given how long Sharidan had known her, the vitriol in the last word was not surprising. They'd had that conversation a few times.

'Well, no arguing with results,' he conceded.

He realized he was trembling slightly. He took a deep breath, which didn't help.

Oh well. 'Let's get this party started, shall we?' He waved over one of the Hands. 'We're setting up in Army HQ. It's a central location and we'll have less layers of command to cut through if we want to get something done. One of you stay behind, try to get people to return to their homes and tell them the cults will start distributing light sources and cold storage boxes as soon as possible. Also tell them that if the threat hasn't become any more acute by then, we'll have an event set up in the central amphitheater by midnight: food, music, storytellers, the works. Then come after us.'

'Sire,' said the Hand, and moved over to whisper in his partner's ear.

The crowd parted with some difficulty as they made their way through the streets, accompanied by Vex and his strike team. It was thick enough that they were prevented from talking until they got inside the front gates of Imperial HQ, which Sharidan was pleased to note was a hive of frenzied activity, well-lit by oil lanterns hanging on the frames that usually held fairy lamps.

They made directly for the general's office, pausing occasionally to acknowledge the soldiers who kept dropping their very important work to stand at attention as they passed. It was dumb, but military wisdom held that it was worth it in the long run to maintain respect for the chain of command, and Sharidan could see the logic in that.

Toman Panissar's office was guarded, but the poor corporal posted outside barely had time to open his boss's door before Sharidan, Quentin and Eleanora barged through unannounced.

Panissar sprang to his feet and bowed. Sharidan gestured impatiently for him to straighten up.

'Status report?' asked the Emperor.

'Patrols at emergency level throughout the city, sire,' said Panissar. 'They report people are restless but no rioting, as yet. A couple of isolated instances of violence or looting, but the culprits were mostly found and locked up and bystanders didn't seem inclined to join in. Guards have been stationed around graveyards and crypts, but so far everything looks quiet on the undead front. Watchmen have been issued horns or whistles for communication, and citizens have been instructed to retreat to their homes if the alarm is sounded, since the siege bunkers use arcane air-filtration systems and they'd probably suffocate without them.'

Sharidan knew the Empire employed a lot of incompetent people, but one of the perks of being the Emperor was that none of his _direct_ underlings were morons. 'Sterling work, general,' he said approvingly. 'Lord Vex? Anything to add?'

'I agree with the general's assessment on the mood in the street; the population seems agitated but not dangerously so.' The Imperial spymaster cleared his throat. 'Additionally, there is preliminary evidence that the Black Wreath are mobilizing in force.'

Well, this night was just getting better and better. 'Any idea what they're planning?' asked Sharidan wearily.

'Your guess is as good as mine, sire, but it's something big. As far as we can tell – and again, this is preliminary – they're pulling out everything they've got. All their fighters and summoners are gearing up, reagent and weapon caches are being unlocked... one agent reported that he saw a known Wreath operative handing out gear to _children_.'

'This is totally uncharacteristic,' said Eleanora. 'The Wreath are all about subtlety. An operation on the scale your talking about is just impossible to hide.'

'Obviously, since we've been getting reports about it,' the Emperor frowned. 'Hold on, when did you _get_ these reports?' His watch wasn't working, but it had been less than an hour since he had left the palace with the Empress. 'This thing only hit... what, forty-five minutes ago?'

The other three people in the room exchanged glances. 'How long did you spend inside Bishop Darling's house, from your perspective?' asked Eleanora.

'Less than ten minutes.' _Oh gods._ 'How long was it from the outside?'

'A couple of hours,' said the Empress, and Sharidan breathed a sigh of relief. He'd heard about people who'd missed _years_ in situations like this. 'It's about nine o'clock.'

'Well, not a catastrophe. We need to remember to look out for time-slips, though. Anything else?' He ran down his mental catalog of factions to look out for. 'Are the cults cooperating? Come to that, where did the Archpope get to?'

'He went off to coordinate the distribution of essential goods by the cults, as you suggested,' said the Empress. 'I'm not sure whether he actually did that, though. Lord Vex?'

'All the cults with significant manpower seem willing to do their part. They haven't been as quick to respond as the Army, though, so actual distribution is only just starting.'

Could Justinian have been deliberately dragging his heels? It was difficult to see how that would benefit him, but Sharidan still didn't know what he was plotting. That was assuming he _was_ plotting something; in terms of evidence, he didn't really have more than some possible acting failures and the fact that Justinian had gone after the skull in the first place.

The suspicions didn't seem worth voicing for now, but he made a mental note to ask Vex in a few hours, to give him time to form an unbiased opinion. Assassinating the Archpope would have to wait; it was critical not to agitate the populace any further.

'Well, get someone to find Justinian and tell him we've set up HQ here and we'd like him to join us. On the subject of which: we're setting up HQ here. General, we'll need some offices.'

'Of course, Your Majesty,' said Panissar blandly, but the Emperor thought he caught the ghost of a grimace. He let it slide; no-one wanted their immediate superior breathing down their neck while they were trying to work, but with communications down it was really the only option.

'One more thing. We're putting together a festival at the Vidian amphitheater. Food, drink, entertainment, speeches from myself and other officials, all on the Throne's dime. I'd like it set up by midnight.'

The general frowned. 'We're stretched thin already, sire. Does that really seem like the best use of our soldiers' time?'

'Our citizenry are scared and restless and wandering the streets with nothing to do. I'd say it's a miracle we haven't seen riots already, except I have been personally informed that the Pantheon are otherwise occupied, so that means it's just blind luck. When the Silver Throne relies on blind luck, _people die_. We _need_ to keep the peace, and the best way to do that is to give people something to do that's more fun than smashing up shopfronts. _Am I clear?_ '

The other three people in the room were looking at him oddly. He realized his voice was a little louder than was strictly necessary, and that he was shaking.

The Emperor closed his eyes and breathed in and out slowly. Once, twice, three times. He opened his eyes.

'My apologies, general.'

'Nonsense, sire. We're all on edge. I will see to it your orders are carried out at once.'

'Thank you.'

They waited patiently while Panissar's aide ushered a couple of unlucky colonels out of their offices; Vex took one, the Imperial couple the other, their trusty Hand silently taking a post in the corner of the room. Only once the door was shut and he was alone with his wife – well, as alone as an Emperor ever was – did Sharidan allow himself to collapse into a chair and put his head in his hands.

Eleanora placed a hand on his shoulder. 'I think you're doing remarkably well,' she said softly.

Sharidan didn't dignify that with a response.

'I particularly liked the idea of a free midnight feast. "Your very gods are fighting for their lives against forces beyond the ken of mortal men! There's nothing we can do about it, though, so here's some bread and circuses!"'

He let out a sobbing laugh. 'Just about sums us up, doesn't it? Keep the population fed and hope the Pantheon have our back. Avei said it herself.'

'Well, I could quibble with that. The Empire pushes forward art, science, philosophy – and justice, as Avei herself should know well. But tonight, yes, we're concentrating on keeping our people from eating each other, and I think you're doing a pretty good job.'

'So far,' said Sharidan darkly.

'True. It won't do to grow complacent.' She took her hand off his shoulder, and he heard the room's other chair scrape along the floor before she sat down next to him. 'Now, tell me what happened inside that house. Where did the _dragon_ come from?'

He lifted his head from his hands and recounted the whole story. The Empress was not a woman who was easily ruffled, but she looked quite alarmed by the end of it.

'The headhunter cannot possibly be a coincidence,' she said. 'Maybe she was hiding among the Sifanese orcs and they teleported her in just before the dust hit?'

'Maybe,' said Sharidan doubtfully. 'They'd have had to convince the kaisa to tolerate having her on the continent, but I can see how that _might_ be done.'

'You have another idea?' asked Eleanora.

'Yes. I don't know if you remember this, but Darling had two elven apprentices.'

She frowned. 'You're suggesting that Antonio Darling had a headhunter living under his roof for several _years_ and nobody noticed?'

' _We_ didn't notice,' he corrected her darkly. 'For all we know, the Thieves' Guild might have thought a headhunter was a pretty good ace in the hole. And if anyone could keep something like that hidden, it would be them.' He paused a second. 'Or the Black Wreath, I suppose. Something to consider.'

She cursed. 'We'll need to interrogate Tricks. And Sweet, if he shows up again.'

'Obviously. I don't think it's a priority now, though. She's dead, wherever she came from.'

Someone knocked on the door. The Emperor and Empress exchanged a glance.

If the laws of dramatic irony held true and that was the headhunter, Sharidan was just going to let her kill him.

'Come in,' he said.

Rather than an undead superpowered elven assassin, it turned out to be another black-suited Hand of the Emperor, this one bearing a tray of coffee and biscuits, which he placed on the table in front of them before taking up a position opposite his fellow.

'I knew there was a reason I kept you guys around,' said Sharidan, pouring two cups.

'Funny you should mention that, sire. Tonight you seem to keep trying to give us the slip.'

'I'm not trying to _give you the slip_ ,' he protested. 'I just had important messages to relay and no-one else I trusted to do it.'

He noticed that Eleanora was grinning, and ignored her.

'Just as you say, sire.'

Passive-aggression was really the only weapon that the Emperor's personal servants had, and he didn't begrudge them it. He just wished they weren't so damn _good_ at it.

He sipped his coffee. It tasted horrible, which cheered him up quite a lot. When magic, death and time all became shaky, it was nice to know that coffee could still be relied upon to scorch your taste buds off.

'Right,' he said. 'Let's get to speechifying.'

The speeches they wound up going with were essentially just longer versions of the one he'd given on Antonio Darling's porch, with a few additions. They invoked specific, well-know historical crises that Tiraas had weathered, with particular emphasis on a couple during which the civilian population had played important roles. They thanked the cults, the army and various officials for rising to the occasion (Sharidan didn't actually know yet exactly who those people were, so the phrase "insert name here" occurred several times in that bit). They added some careful acknowledgment that they might be in this for the long haul, and outlined plans for establishing some kind of long-term status quo.

This, of course, required them to actually come up with those plans, which took a good deal more thought than the speech-writing did. It also wasn't something they could do in detail without consulting their advisers, most of whom weren't there yet. They did their best anyway, noting down the technical details that would have to be sorted out later with someone who actually knew what they were talking about.

Some time into the process – Sharidan thought it was about an hour – there was another knock on the door, and yet another Hand opened it. 'Bishop Branwen Snowe, sire. By order of the Archpope, apparently.'

Sharidan couldn't believe the sheer gall of the man. Who answered an Imperial summons by sending an underling?

Someone who knew he was going to be tried for treason regardless, that was who. Perhaps he should have pretended he was going to let him off the hook, but really, Justinian was too savvy for that.

Well, he might as well see her. 'Send her in.'

The Bishop entered the room silently and stood in front of their desk with her eyes cast down deferentially. She was very pretty and had clearly spent a while decking herself out in order to meet the Emperor, but if anything that just annoyed him more. Not that he didn't appreciate beauty in its place, but there was a time for play and a time for efficiency, and now was the latter.

'Well?' he asked.

'His Holiness the Archpope presents his _humblest_ apologies for his absence, Your Majesties,' said Snowe. Her voice was modulated strangely, as if she were reciting a poem or a piece of theater. No doubt she'd gone over her intro a few times on the way here. 'He is engaged in critical research, the object of which cannot be moved, and it is his honest belief that you would prioritize this work over making a public appearance at the event tonight.'

Like Hell it was. 'What critical research?'

'His Holiness considered it best that it be kept confidential—'

That was the last straw. He was going to kill him tonight, public opinion be damned. He could even tell the populace he was to blame for the whole thing, which was actually true.

'—but said Your Majesties would know what it was. Something no-one except yourselves knew about, and no-one else could access.'

What _._

'The Book,' whispered Eleanora.

Damn. It had completely slipped the Emperor's mind what with everything else that had been going on, but Justinian was right; they needed more information and that was by far the best place to get it. No doubt there was some mortal scholar in the city who considered themselves an expert on Chaos, but Sharidan was given to understand that human knowledge on the subject was so poor that after a couple of hours with the Book, Justinian probably already knew more than they did.

Sharidan didn't say any of that, of course. Instead he just said, 'Oh, yes. Well, good on the Archpope for thinking ahead. Has he made any progress?'

'Nothing urgent, but he requests a brief meeting with Your Majesties to update you on his findings later in the evening.'

'Later in the evening, we shall be attending our citizens in the amphitheater,' said Eleanora drily. 'If the Archpope would deign to join us, no doubt we would be _enthralled_ to hear any wisdom he saw fit to impart.'

Snowe blushed deeply and curtsied. 'Apologies once again, Your Majesty. I know this must seem impertinent. If you would rather the meeting occur sooner, His Holiness will naturally take a break from his research at once.'

 _Well played_ , thought Sharidan.

'This evening will be fine,' said Eleanora testily. 'Is that all?'

The Bishop curtsied again. 'In his absence, the Archpope considered that I might speak for the Church, if it please Your Majesties.'

All at once, the Emperor had had enough. Justinian was a dead man walking and he knew it; at this point he was just screwing with them. 'Great idea. Pull up a chair.'

She blanched, which was probably the first real emotion they'd seen from her. 'Your Majesty?'

'You heard me. Wouldn't do to interrupt yet another military officer just so you have a place to work.'

'I... could work in the hall, Your Majesty. Or outside.'

'Nonsense,' said Eleanora cheerfully, as if she had any idea what Sharidan was doing. 'Really, have a seat and we'll write our speeches together. It's only sensible.'

After that, time passed quickly until a young-looking petty officer poked her head in deferentially and informed them that it was eleven o'clock.

'Thank you,' said Sharidan automatically, then looked up from his desk. 'Wait. How do you know?'

'Got an old pendulum clock downstairs, Your Majesty,' she said, keeping her eyes on the floor. 'Belonged to somebody's grandpa, I think.'

If there was something symbolic in that, Sharidan couldn't be bothered to figure out what it was.

'Right. Well, thank General Panissar for his hospitality and tell him we'll be heading out soon to make sure everything is in order.' Not that he didn't trust whoever the general had put in charge of the arrangements, but there was nothing like an impending visit from the Emperor for getting a little extra elbow grease out of people.

They finished up their speeches and left the building ten minutes later. The good Bishop made herself scarce as soon as they stepped out the office, but Sharidan was not surprised to see that a half-dozen Hands had taken strategic positions around the building, and they peeled off to follow him and Eleanora as they made their way out.

Streetlights throughout the city had been replaced with oil-burning substitutes, and the windows of many homes showed flickering firelight. Dust still drifted lazily through the air, shimmering with reflected lamplight.

'What was that about?' asked Eleanora quietly.

'I wanted to keep an eye on her, maybe put her a little off-balance. Justinian's planning _something_ , I'll be damned if I know what and frankly I can't be bothered to find out. And did you see the way she was dressed? Anyone who wants to be underestimated _that_ badly is trouble.'

The Empress smiled warmly. 'You're never quite the same as when someone's plotting against you, did you know that?'

'When have people _not_ been plotting against me?' asked Sharidan, but really he wasn't feeling particularly bitter about it. He just wished the chronic schemers could take a time-out when the world was in peril.

'There, there, dear,' said Eleanora, patting him on the shoulder. 'Feel up to this?'

He snorted. 'Please. Did you see me outside Darling's house earlier? I am on _fire_ tonight.'

'Well, better you than the capital, I suppose,' said Eleanora, deadpan.

Sharidan glared at her. 'How long have you been waiting for me to give you the straight line for that?'

'More or less since my stove exploded. It's actually the only reason I've been trying to cheer you up.'

The Emperor laughed at loud – not something he'd usually do in public, but he figured right now it would be good for his citizens to see him relaxed.

Sharidan's mood only improved when he saw the amphitheater. Two rows of oil lanterns on poles marched down the steps on either side, and an actual bonfire had been lit on the stage at the center, with an enormous pile of wood sitting just below it to keep it fed. Stalls were being set up on the flat area surrounding the top tier, some clearly intended to serve food, some left empty, presumably for sideshows. Barrels of drink were wheeled in as he watched, and the smells of roasting meat and baking bread reminded him that he hadn't actually had dinner that evening.

'I'm actually impressed,' said Eleanora.

'I love being Emperor,' agreed Sharidan. 'I'm like "throw me a party!" and a giant machine leaps into action to do my bidding.' He turned to his Hands. 'Someone find the man in charge for me.'

The man in charge was in fact a woman, a forty-something year old major with a ready smile. She bowed rather than curtsied when the Emperor and Empress approached. 'Good evening, Your Majesties.'

'Good evening, Major,' said Sharidan. 'Impressive setup you've got here.'

'Your Majesty is too kind.'

'I've always said the world could use a little more kindness,' said Sharidan, who could not remember ever saying that in his life. 'Are we on track to start by midnight?'

'I believe so, Your Majesty. I understand Your Majesty will be speaking?'

'Yes, but not right away,' said Sharidan, slipping into a more casual tone. The whole point of the event was to pretend there was nothing to worry about; if the people at the top acted relaxed, hopefully that would trickle down. 'Give people time to show up for the free food, then hit 'em when they're packed too tight to run away.'

'As you say, Your Majesty,' she said diplomatically.

'By the way,' said Eleanora. 'What exactly is in those kegs? Because I'm not sure it's a good idea to serve alcohol at a time like this.'

The major tried unsuccessfully to suppress a grin. 'Non-alcoholic beer, Your Majesty. The kind we serve at events on base. Soldiers claim to hate it, but in fact most people can't tell the difference if they aren't told in advance.'

Sharidan nodded appreciatively. 'Good thinking. What's your name, Major?'

'Nur Avelea, Your Majesty.'

That _was_ unusual. 'Avelea, huh? Silver Legions not to your taste?'

Nur opened her mouth and paused for a second, and Sharidan could practically hear the gears grinding in her head as she rephrased a conversation she'd probably had too many times so it was appropriate for the Emperor's ears. 'Obviously I'm enormously grateful to the Sisterhood for everything they've done for me, Your Majesty. And I do believe it is my calling to serve Avei by wielding arms. But... I feel it's healthier for a person of faith to seek out environments that don't necessarily share their convictions.'

'Fair enough,' said Sharidan. Not everyone in the Silver Legions was Avenist, but obviously most were. 'I always enjoy getting people's thoughts on their personal path in life, since I never really had to wrestle with the question myself.'

That brought a thoughtful expression to the major's face, but before she could respond Eleanora interjected with a very regal 'Carry on, Major,' and gently steered Sharidan away by the elbow.

'Let the nice lady work,' she said quietly.

'I was enjoying our conversation,' he said.

'I could see that, but—'

The sky jerked.

There was no fanfare and no buildup. One moment the stars were in one place, the next they had all moved slightly, as if the whole heavenly sphere had been rotated a couple of degrees.

The whole amphitheater – maybe the whole city – fell silent. For a few seconds, the crackling of the bonfire was the only sound.

"What the hell was that?" Sharidan didn't ask, because no-one would have been able to tell him anything he didn't already know. Instead he said, 'I'm going to go talk to Justinian. You stay here and give the speech.'

'We're still going ahead with this?'

'I don't see why not. If the dead rise at least the bulk of the civilian population will be in one easily-defended area.'

Anyone else might have hesitated, but Eleanora just said, 'All right,' and gave him a hug. 'Be safe.'

He set off with three Hands in tow. The residents of Tiraas had apparently come to the conclusion that if they were going to die they might as well do it on a full stomach, and were already streaming towards the amphitheater. Being the Emperor, moving against the crowd was not difficult.

The crowds had thinned by the time he reached the approximate neighborhood of the Elysium, the residents of that area of the city being more the type to hole up at home during a crisis. This made it easy to spot the dark-skinned man in the white suit standing outside the bar, looking up at the sign.

'This is the first time I've actually laid eyes on the place,' he said conversationally as Sharidan stopped at the end of the street. He was some distance away, but the sounds of the crowd were muffled enough by distance and dust that the Emperor could hear him clearly. 'And believe me, I've tried before. I imagine it's only because the Pantheon are too busy to keep up their usual obfuscation.'

Sharidan didn't have the patience for Embras Mogul's brand of melodrama at the best of times. 'One of you drag this man to a cell.'

Mogul flung up his hands as the Hand of the Emperor took a step forward. 'Truce! I want to talk.'

'And I'm sure Imperial Intelligence will be very interested in what you have to say, but right now you're beneath my notice.'

'Lay a hand on me and you'll regret it,' countered Mogul. Your gods are occupied; mine isn't.'

Were high priests afforded the same special treatment as paladins and elevated dragons? Sharidan didn't know. He sighed and gestured for his Hand to back down. 'What do you want? And spare me the grandstanding, please.'

'As you wish,' said Mogul. 'We're leaving. You can all deal with Chaos on your own. Or, more likely, not.'


End file.
